


The Lesson

by Fierceawakening



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierceawakening/pseuds/Fierceawakening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a bit in the current IDW comics where Megatron defects to the Autobots and asks someone "Where is it written in the terms of my parole that I have to do [some heroic thing]?" Another Autobot points at Megatron's new Autobot brand and says "Right there." I liked the interaction, but wasn't too keen on the implication that the Autobrand means something Serious and the Deceptibrand doesn't. I posted to Tumblr saying "someone should say something similar to an Autobot defector.</p><p>The idea took off like a rocket.</p><p>So I had to write it.</p><p>This isn't quite set in MTMTE-verse because I couldn't bring myself to write Autobot!Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lesson

A flash of red and a swaggering gait tell me he’s around.

I look up and scowl. He’s holding a cube of high-grade in one hand and his horns twitch like he’s spoiling for a fight.

Which he always is. And coming from me, that’s saying something.

"Hey, Autobot!" I call. "Hey, ugly!"

He rushes at me. The high-grade sloshes in its cube. But I know what I’m doing when I taunt mechs bigger than I am, and I’ve already transformed my arms. I slam my piledrivers into the ground hard.

It trembles under us. He would’ve lost his footing even if he wasn’t halfway overcharged. He slips and lands hard on his big red aft. The cube of high-grade sails past us and spills out in a glowing pink smear on the ground. I lean down and laugh in his face.

He glares up at me. “Autobot? I gave Bucket Head what he wanted, didn’t I?”

I step on his chest, hard. If I don’t he’ll get up, and I don’t stand a chance against someone his size in a fair fight.   


Or whatever kind of unfair fight he wants. So I’d better make sure it’s the kind of unfair fight I want instead.

The Decepticon brand on his chest is fresh, and me stepping on it has to hurt. He howls, and his optics — still blue, still ugly — flare like he could kill me just by staring.

I don’t care. “His name is Megatron,” I say. I spit sparks at him and grind my heel against his brand again.

I shouldn’t be so angry at the nickname. I’m nowhere near as big a fan of our Great Leader as Soundwave is. And I’m the one who came up with it in the first place. The first time Megatron heard me say it he grabbed a giant bucket, slammed it over me, and welded it to the floor. It took me forever to get out of that one.

"Fine, fine. Megatron. Whatever." He winces. "Look, Rumble, what’s your problem, anyway? Might’ve invited you out for a joyride if you hadn’t decided to trip me and step on me."

"I’ve got better things to do, Cliffjumper.  _You’ve_  got better things to do.”

"I’ve got better things to do? I’m a ‘Con now, like you. You telling me you don’t go out and break shit for fun?"

 _Shit._ It’s a human swear word. Means something kind of like exhaust but more solid and sticky. Kind of like slag, but smells worse. I like the word. Even Soundwave flicks his visor when I say it, because nobody wants to think too hard about organic waste.

But coming from this mech it just bothers me. Autobots get too close to humans, and Cliffjumper's too much like an Autobot.

Or trying too hard not to be.

"What, with you?" I slide my foot off his brand, but not because I feel like being nice. I just don’t want the pain to distract him from the look I’m giving him. "I don’t think so. 

"And yeah. I meant what I said. You’ve got better things to do, and I’m sure Megatron told you to go do some of them. So get the hell out of my face."

"There you go again with that ‘better things to do’ scrap. Says who?"

Primus below, this scrapheap isn’t just ugly, he’s  _dense_. I think of driving my piledriver right through his chest. He doesn’t deserve the brand he’s wearing.

But I’m not supposed to kill him. Soundwave wouldn’t talk to me for a week, and I’d probably get in trouble with Megatron, too. My engines rumble and I feel like I need to smash something up  _right now_ , but that’s how Cliffjumper wants me to feel.

So I do the stupidest, most Autobot thing I can think of to do. I ignore him.

"Says who?" he says again. "Megatron?" 

Turns out ordering him to say the Boss Mech’s name isn’t any better. He might as well be saying “Floptimus Prime.”

"Even Megatron’s second-in-command hates him."

I snicker, loud enough to shut him up. But he’s still going.

"Why do you think I came here? I can do whatever I want. I left the Autobots, their Prime, their rules. Where’s it say I’ve gotta listen to some little runt just because he’s been a Decepticon longer than I have?"

Red light crackles in front of my optics and my piledriver starts moving before I know what’s happening. I really do want more than anything to jam it through his chest, smash up the plating with his brand on it, and drive it right through his worthless spark.

I’m not sure anyone would blame me, even Soundwave. And Cliffjumper just finished telling me he told Bucket Head — Megatron — everything he wanted to know anyway.

No one would miss this ugly heap of scrap.

But if I kill him, I kill him before he understands why he deserves it. I don’t know why I care. I don’t think I should care. Caring about shit like that is for bigger Decepticons with bigger things on their processors.

But I do. I lower my piledriver and grin as he winces. But instead of denting up his chest plating I just tap the brand, feel the metal underneath me vibrate. He yelps in pain again and I wait for him to settle down, just like Megatron would after grabbing Starscream by the wings. Then I speak.

"Right there," I say. I tap at the brand again.

Bright red hands snatch at my ankles. I raise up my piledriver like I’m gonna hit him again. That stops him. He lowers his hands and glowers, his blue optics sharp and bright. But he’s listening.

Some other ‘Con should do this. I’m not the kind of mech who knows how to explain. But I’m the one he’s listening to.

"What, did you think that joining the Decepticons was all about going on joyrides because you wanna? Going on raids because you’re pissed off at mechs you used to call your buddies? Did you think you can just get overcharged and break stuff any time you want?"

He stammers something. 

I sneer. It feels good. “Congratulations. You’re a piece of shit  _and_ an idiot.”

"What —?"

"Look, you overgrown moron. I’m the last mech in the Decepticons to tell you not to go smash shit. I like it too. Why do you think I’ve got piledrivers in my slagging arms?

"But if you think that’s all you’re here for, maybe you should lay off the high grade and learn what that brand on your chest  means."

He looks like he’s about to say something, but I don’t let him.

"If you don’t," I say, "somebody’s gonna kill you for it. And you’re right about one thing."

"What?" His voice is soft and staticky.

I grin. “We’re not the Autobots. We don’t stick together just because some Prime told us we had to.”

"So?"

"So if somebody does kill you,  _nobody here is gonna give a damn._ ”


End file.
